


Breaking News

by mfingenius



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Angst, Don't copy to another site, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:33:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25005466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mfingenius/pseuds/mfingenius
Summary: “You smell like alcohol,” Kashel says bluntly. Auguste rears back, surprised. “And tobacco, and it’s nine thirty in the morning. You look like you haven’t slept, you didn’t answer any of our insistent calls for two hours, and, if I’m not wrong, you’re a university student. You’re not exactly in peak condition to take care of another human being.”Auguste can’t find anything to say.
Relationships: Auguste & Laurent (Captive Prince)
Comments: 69
Kudos: 170





	1. Chapter 1

Auguste finds out when it’s in the news.

He wakes up, same as always, hating everything and with a pounding headache; he doesn’t remember the name of the girl in his bed, and he doesn’t care, either. He’ll kick her out as soon as she wakes up.

He goes to the kitchen, searching for some painkillers; he swallows them down with tequila - a bad idea, he knows, but he doesn’t think he has any water left - and sits on the kitchen table with a groan. It’s barely seven - he never sleeps for more than a few hours at a time - and he enjoys the quiet of it.

His apartment’s a mess, but he doesn’t particularly care; he’ll call a service to clean it up later, and it’ll be trashed tonight again, and he’ll have maids coming in tomorrow, _again_. It’s become a routine. 

He’s seriously considering going back to sleep with his forehead against the kitchen table when his phone begins to ring. He groans, jerking upright and beginning to look for it among the clothes thrown over the kitchen floor. When he finally finds it, he checks the name on the screen to make sure it’s not Laurent, feeling a pang of guilt as he does it; it’s not that he doesn’t want to see or talk to his brother, it’s just been - _hard_. 

Their parents died three years ago, when Laurent was eleven and Auguste was seventeen, and they were both sent to live with their uncle; Auguste had left just a few months after that, after getting into college on a football scholarship - not that he needed it, since his parents left their entire fortune to him and Laurent and he’s currently wasting it away in parties and anything that makes him feel good for three minutes - and Laurent is… _different_ now.

He’d wanted to visit Auguste a lot, at first, seeming desperate to get away, but Auguste had brushed him off whenever he could; he didn’t want Laurent to see what a mess he was. After a while, Laurent had stopped asking to visit, but he still calls. Auguste picks up sometimes, and though he usually ends the call as soon as he can, he _is_ trying.

He knows he’s not doing very well, which is why he’s immensely relieved when it’s only Jord; he’s one of Auguste’s best friends from Arles, before Auguste moved to Delpha to go to college, but they haven’t talked since Jord called him an irresponsible dick for getting drunk every day for three months after his parents died.

“Jord?” he asks, picking up. It must be important if Jord is calling him; he’s never apologized, and Auguste hasn’t either.

“Turn on your fucking TV,” Jord snaps. “The news.”

“Which channel?” Auguste asks tiredly, walking to the living room and searching for the remote. It has to be here somewhere…

“Any fucking channel, Auguste!” He hasn’t heard Jord sound this angry… well, ever.

He gives up on searching for the remote, instead clicking the button to turn the TV on and stepping back to see the screen properly. It’s already on a news channel, and Auguste is about to ask why Jord has decided to call him at seven in the morning to tell him to turn on the news when he catches the headline.

_Laurent DeVere, second son to billionaire DeVere family, taken away from his uncle because of alleged child sexual abuse_

Auguste stops breathing.

“Get on a plane,” Jord snaps. “Now.”

Auguste is booking a plane ticket on his laptop before Jord has even finished the sentence.

*

The plane ride to Arles is only an hour and a half; he’s back at his Uncle’s house before ten, swallowing and knocking on the door. He’d scoured the news obsessively while on the plane. It seems no one knows who tipped off the police, but that they’d gone to their Uncle’s house to question him and seen it, seen him - doing things to Laurent; Auguste can’t think about it.

He already threw up twice.

The reporter had said their uncle had been arrested immediately, and now Laurent was awaiting for a word on what would happen; Auguste doesn’t want to think about his brother, sitting there all alone, just _waiting._

The door opens, and he expects to see Laurent, but it’s not; there are three men in police uniforms there, and behind them, Auguste can see many more; the house had been swarmed by reporters, yelling and taking pictures, so Auguste had had to sneak in through the back of the iron-wrought fence, an old spot he’d quickly learned of after he’d begun sneaking off to parties at night.

His uncle might’ve known, and simply not stopped him because it was convenient for him.

Auguste nearly retches again.

“I’m Auguste DeVere,” he says. “I’m here to see my brother.”

“No one is allowed in or out,” one of the officers tells him. “You have to get off the property.”

“He’s my brother,” Auguste snaps. “And he’s fifteen. I’m here to see him.”

“ _You’re_ the brother, then.” Behind the officers, steps up a woman; she has olive skin and long, wavy brown hair. “I’ll take care of him.”

The officers leave, and Auguste tries not to sound too impatient when he says, “Yes. And who are you?”

The woman smiles grimly. “My name is Kashel. I’m your brother’s social worker. We’ve been trying to reach you for hours.”

Auguste had forgotten his phone in the apartment after kicking the girl he’d slept with out. He grimaces.

“Social worker?” he asks. “Why does Laurent need a social worker?”

Kashel looks at him like she’s not entirely sure if he’s dumb. 

“Well,” she says, careful. “Seeing as your brother’s fifteen and his current guardian is awaiting trial for child abuse, we need to find him another one for the time being, and then someone permanent.”

“I am,” Auguste says, without hesitation. “I will be. His guardian.”

“Mr. DeVere, we don’t give children to anyone-”

“I’m his brother!”

“You smell like alcohol,” Kashel says bluntly. Auguste rears back, surprised. “And tobacco, and it’s nine thirty in the morning. You look like you haven’t slept, you didn’t answer any of our _insistent_ calls for two hours, and, if I’m not wrong, you’re a university student. You’re not exactly in peak condition to take care of another human being.”

Auguste can’t find anything to say; he cannot - Laurent cannot go to someone else, he just can’t. Sure, Auguste hasn’t been the best brother these past few years, and he’ll have to change everything about his life before it’s even acceptable for Laurent to be near, but he _has_ to take care of him, Laurent is the most important person in the world to him.

He doesn’t know how he seems to have forgotten that.

“I-” he tries. Then again, “I-”

“Right now, you can see him,” Kashel says kindly; she doesn’t look to be older than him, must be only twenty one, and yet she seems calm, entirely put together. Auguste feels like his life is falling apart. “I’ll take you to him.”

Auguste steps inside numbly, watching as a dozen people walk around the house, each doing different things; he doesn’t know what they’re all doing, and, quite frankly, he doesn’t care. He wants to see his brother.

Kashel takes him upstairs, to Laurent’s room - walking through his uncle’s house is a surreal experience. Auguste never thought he’d be back here - and, before she opens the door, she looks at him sternly.

“Do not promise him anything,” she says. “Don’t pressure him to tell you anything, and don’t push for details-”

“I don’t need an instruction manual to talk to my brother,” Auguste snaps.

She purses her lips. “As I’ve heard it, you wouldn’t know, seeing as you haven’t spoken to him for a while.”

Auguste pales, but she does not look in the least apologetic.

“I devote my life to these children, Mr. DeVere,” she says. “My priority here is keeping _him_ safe and not to make this any harder than it already has been. If I have to keep him safe from you, I’ll do that, too.”

Auguste nods.

She looks him over once again, and then knocks on the door softly.

“Laurent,” she says, opening the door slightly; her tone is nothing like the one he’d used on Auguste before. She steps through and then closes the door in Auguste’s face.

He waits impatiently, listening to her talking to Laurent; he can’t quite make out the words, but he assumes she’s asking him if he’s willing to see him. He doesn’t hear Laurent’s response, but, a second later, the door opens, and Kashel steps aside with one last menacing look towards him.

Seeing Laurent is more surreal than walking through the house was; he looks unbelievably thin, somehow exactly as Auguste remembers him and not like that at all, dark bags under his eyes and a look on his face that Auguste has never seen before and wishes to never see again.

He tries to smile. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Laurent is impossibly quiet.

They’re both silent for a while, and it seems maybe Auguste _did_ need a manual on how to talk to his brother; he wishes he’d paid more attention to Kashel. _Don’t promise him anything. Don’t pressure him._

“I-” he tries. _I’m sorry_? Laurent would have every right to kick him out for saying that. _Why didn’t you tell me? Did you try to tell me and I didn’t answer the phone? When you wanted to visit and I said no, why didn’t you insist more_? 

That wouldn’t be fair; Laurent had made countless efforts to talk to him, to be with him, and Auguste had felt bad about pushing him away, but _now_ … knowing what was going on while he was at parties and refusing to talk to Laurent, it’s a million times worse.

“I-” He doesn’t know what to say. He sees it clearly in Laurent’s face, how uncomfortable he is in the room, and though fury boils inside him, he ignores it. “We can go somewhere else.”

Laurent nods immediately; as they go from room to room, Auguste watches him. They don’t step into Uncle’s rooms, because Auguste assumes most of it happened there, but he searches Laurent’s face for any sign of discomfort any time they go somewhere; the dining room doesn’t work, and neither does the kitchen.

Laurent grimaces in the living room, and wraps his arms around himself warily in Auguste’s old room; the Laundry room doesn’t draw as big a reaction as anywhere else, but it’s also noticeable, so Auguste doesn’t want them to stay there. When he is considering giving up - this was happening, after all, for three years in this house - they walk into the library, and Laurent’s face is sweet relief.

Auguste exhales.

“You’re here,” Laurent says, after he curls himself into the big armchair. 

“I am.” Auguste swallows. Laurent doesn’t look at him, and Auguste swallows again. “Laurent, I’m sorry-”

“I’m sorry,” Laurent says, at the same time, and they both look at each other surprised.

“Why are you sorry?” Auguste asks, surprised.

“I-” Laurent’s cheeks are red, suddenly, stained as though he’s been slapped. “I tried to - I didn’t want to give you any trouble - and I’ve made you come all the way here - and now Uncle’s in jail and it’s my fault-”

“What?” Auguste asks. “ _What_?”

“I swore I wouldn’t-” Laurent’s eyes are bright, wet, and he blinks quickly. “He told me I would just bother you and he was right - I swear it wasn’t me who called the police, I didn’t mean for any of this-”

“Laurent, what are you talking about?” Auguste asks, heart beating wildly. “I’m not _angry_ at you. I don’t care if it was you who called the police. Fuck, if it had been you I would’ve said well-done. _I’m_ sorry I left you here, I made it so hard to reach me-”

“It’s not your fault,” Laurent says; he’s nothing like Auguste remembers him; he’s clothed from neck to wrist to toe, everything tightly fitted and dark, nothing like the child Auguste remembers. “I know I’m - a bother, and I _really_ didn’t-”

“Laurent, you never bother me.”

“You didn’t want to see me.”

And isn’t that just perfect? Auguste had been unknowingly helping along a narrative their Uncle had been telling Laurent, about being a bother, about being unloved, Auguste had made him _feel_ all those things.

_Fuck_ ; he doesn’t know how he’s fucked up so severely.

“I-” Auguste swallows. “Laurent, I’m not… perfect. I wasn’t - I’m not having the easiest time, and I didn’t want you to see me like that and I was selfish, I never once thought about-”

About what might be going on with his brother, never once saw the signs that were probably already there.

“I’m so sorry,” he repeats, hollowly.

“I-” Laurent wipes at his eyes desperately, and sounds oddly fragile when he speaks. “Can I - stay with you? I don’t want to go anywhere else-”

“Of course,” Auguste says immediately. “Fuck, Laurent, I’d never let you go to anyone else, I - I love you, so much, I’m so sorry-”

“Promise me, please, promise I-”

_Don’t promise anything_ , Kashel had said. _You’re not exactly in peak condition to take care of another human being_.

Auguste doesn’t care; he’ll get custody of Laurent, whatever he has to do, however he has to change his life for it.

“I promise,” he says.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: FURTHER DISCUSSION OF CSA, MENTIONS OF EATING DISORDERS, DEPRESSION, AND ANXIETY

Laurent isn’t _trying_ to hurt Auguste, most of the time. 

The rest of the time... _well_. 

Logically, he knows it’s not his brother’s fault; he didn’t know, and if he had, he would’ve gotten Laurent out in as long as he took to get to Uncle’s house. That’s the simple truth. 

The problem is, it’s not simple. 

The problem is, Laurent tried to tell him. 

The problem _is_ _,_ Laurent was _alone_ in that place for _three years_ and Auguste didn’t fucking notice a thing. 

The _problem_ is, Laurent still feels like he’s stuck in that place and he can’t get _out_ and he can’t _move on_ and sometimes talking about it with Paschal only makes him feel worse. The problem is Laurent can’t sleep, the problem is his nightmares leave him gutted, the problem is he hasn’t cut his hair because he knows Uncle liked it long, the problem is he _hates_ that, the problem is he can’t bring himself to cut his fucking hair. 

The problem is everyone around him who knows pretends they don’t, pretend it’s never happened, and maybe they think they’re doing him a favor but they’re not, because Laurent doesn’t get the luxury of pretending it never happened, of _forgetting_ about it. 

“He fucked me in your room.” When he’s feeling particularly vicious, he mentions it; it makes Auguste’s face do something Laurent both _hates_ and relishes. He doesn’t like hurting his brother, or, logically, he knows he shouldn’t, but he doesn’t _care_ about anything, nothing at all is important because he’s so fucking _angry_ . He _needs_ Auguste to react, to do _something_ , to not keep talking to him in calm voices and understanding words as Kashel told him; Laurent heard her. He doesn’t need any of that. He _needs_ someone to be as angry as he is, to give him any sort of fight, a _reason_ to feel like this. 

“Oh.” Auguste would never forbid him talking about it, but he’s evidently uncomfortable; he probably knows Laurent is doing this only to bother him – Laurent never _really_ talks about it with anyone but Paschal, his therapist – but he doesn’t stop him, either, and Laurent hates that even more, because people keep treating him as if he’ll fucking break. 

It’s not polite conversation for dinner, but then again, Laurent isn’t eating; he’s just holding his cutlery watching Auguste at the opposite end of the table. 

“In your bed.” 

Auguste won’t tell him to stop until he can’t take it anymore, Laurent knows. 

Sometimes, he steps out into the hallway and breathes until he feels like he doesn’t want to kill Laurent anymore, Laurent also knows; it’s viciously satisfying. 

“I’m sorry.” It makes Laurent angrier. Laurent doesn’t want him to be _sorry_ , Laurent wants him to be fucking _angry_ . He doesn’t want to have to feel bad about this, too, after he’s done it, wants to stop feeling like there’s fire burning in his throat, wants someone to give him a fair fight if only to prove himself that only because he could never beat Uncle doesn’t mean he’s helpless, he wants to make Auguste feel as bad as he does because it’s not _fucking fair._

Kashel also warned Auguste about Laurent being angry; he’d heard that, too. He doesn’t let anything happen in the apartment without him knowing about it, and maybe it’s an old habit, but it’s a useful one. Before, being uninformed of the smallest thing meant uneven ground against his uncle, even more of a disadvantage than he already had. 

Here, it’s mostly useless; Auguste doesn’t really hide things from him, and he’s always been a terrible liar. Paschal tells him there’s nothing wrong with doing it, if it’s bringing him any comfort, and it is, so Laurent doesn’t stop; he’s set some boundaries for himself, mostly with Paschal’s help, but he has more pressing issues to deal with than eavesdropping. 

Laurent grits his teeth and looks down at his dinner plate, trying to get some semblance of control over his feelings; he doesn’t _want_ to hurt Auguste, he’ll regret it later, and he needs to control his anger; he’s been working on it, really, but he thinks no one notices; how would they? Auguste doesn’t hear Laurent’s every cruel and heartless thought. He hears what Laurent says, but he doesn’t know it’s not even a tenth of what he _could_ say. 

“I’m not hungry,” he says, standing and pushing his chair back with a loud screech; Auguste looks at him worriedly. He's always so fucking _worried_. 

Laurent hates that, too. 

“Are you sure?” he asks. “You didn’t eat breakfast, and you barely had lunch.” 

_Most common side effects in survivors: depression, eating disorders, anxiety, dissociative patterns, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder._

Laurent had read the article Auguste was reading on his laptop; he thinks it should be nice, almost, but it’s only making him angrier. Everything is always making him angrier. 

“I’m sure,” he says icily; he thinks he might throw up anything he eats now, with how nauseous he already is. “I’m going to my room.” 

He doesn’t wait for a response; in his room, he buries his face in the pillow and fights the urge to scream, tears burning in his eyes, throat scorching. He can’t fucking _think_. 

Auguste doesn’t bother him; usually, he leaves Laurent alone while he works through his anger, and Laurent doesn’t know if he’s thankful or angrier for it. Partly, he’s glad Auguste isn’t around, because this way, Laurent doesn’t have to feel the guilt of looking at his brother, the shame of knowing he knows what’s happened to him. Another, smaller part of him, wants somebody to hold him. 

Uncle used to hold him when he cried after Auguste left and wouldn’t take his calls. 

Laurent barely makes it to the bathroom before he retches; he empties his stomach into the toilet, and, when he’s done, sits back, shaking against the cool wall. 

The scissors are in the bathroom sink, and, in a whim, he grabs them. 

* 

Auguste washes dishes a lot lately; he’d needed to find something to do so he could not think about Laurent’s awful words, about Kashel’s and Paschal’s warnings, about their uncle rotting in a prison cell for three years. 

_Three years_ , for what he did to Laurent. 

Auguste is seriously considering hiring a hit man when he gets out. 

It’s nearly two in the morning, and Laurent went to his room hours ago, but Auguste can’t bring himself to go to his room to sleep; he’s paranoid of not being there if Laurent needs him, now. He’s already failed him so many times. 

He rubs at his eyes tiredly, and is considering just lying in bed, even if he’ll be awake, when he hears Laurent’s door open; he freezes, half-hoping Laurent’s going to talk to him, half-hoping he’s going to the fridge for a meal. 

Laurent comes into the living room quietly, wearing pajamas; he’s holding big scissors in his hand, and his hair – previously long, up to his shoulder blades – is choppy and short; he has a small cut on his ear. 

“Can you even it out for me?” Laurent doesn’t look at him while he says it, but he sounds kinder than he has all week. Auguste used to cut his hair all the time when they were younger, because they’d both thought it fun, and he’d gotten good at it. 

He hasn’t done it in a really long time. 

He nods wordlessly, afraid of upsetting Laurent, and takes the scissors from him. Laurent takes a seat in a chair, and Auguste pretends not to notice the tense set of his shoulders, the way his fists are clenched in his lap. 

He begins to cut Laurent’s hair quietly. 


	3. Chapter 3

“What are you doing here?” Auguste asks, after he opens the door and finds Damen and Nik grinning and holding matching bottles of Vodka.

“You’ve hardly said anything the entire summer,” Damen says, stepping into the apartment. “We wanted to make sure you were alive.”

“I am,” Auguste says, swallowing the knot in his throat, only for it to form again immediately after. “I told you I’d be spending time with my brother-”

“We know,” Nik says, stepping in, too; Auguste closes the door behind them, unsure of whether to kick them out or not. He’s not having the easiest time, dealing with Laurent, and he’s missed seeing his friends, but Laurent is – most likely – having a much harder time than he is, and Auguste’s priority now – and, he’s vowed, for the rest of his life – is making sure Laurent is alright and safe.

Plus, Laurent isn’t in his care permanently, yet; he has a hearing at the end of the summer, before he goes back to school, and he knows Kashel can drop in any time unannounced while Laurent lives with him simply to see how he’s doing. He cannot risk anything messing that up. He’s changed his entire _life_ for this, basically. No more parties, no more girls – and fuck had it been awkward the first time a girl had knocked on the door looking for Auguste and Laurent had answered the door – no more alcohol, no drugs, nothing that could possibly endanger his liability as a guardian for Laurent. He’s practically purged his apartment.

“This really isn’t a good time,” Auguste tries; Laurent is sleeping. He's been getting nightmares, and now his sleep schedule is all messed up, which in turn has messed up Auguste’s sleeping schedule, which, okay, to be fair, was pretty messed up in the first place. They’d both been awake until six in the morning – because Laurent is going through a phase where he panics the moment Auguste leaves him alone, and yes, falling asleep first counts as leaving him alone, even if he’s right beside him – and then Laurent had slept for two hours, which had mercifully allowed Auguste to sleep as well, and then he’d woken up again; after Auguste had managed to coax him into eating something, and then reading to him for a while – there are days where Laurent hardly talks, which means Auguste has had to find things to do to comfort Laurent that don’t involve him having to talk – he'd fallen asleep again around four. Now, it’s been two hours, and though Auguste has only left his side to answer the door, he’s eager to get back, because he’s made the mistake before to not be there when Laurent wakes up, and he doesn’t want a repeat of that panic attack.

“Come on, dude,” Damen says. “No one’s seen you in _months,_ it’s been long enough-”

There’s a sound from the living room – in which they’ve mostly been sleeping, since Laurent cannot stand to be alone but also can’t stand to wake up in the middle of the night and see someone lying next to him – and Auguste thinks, _shit_.

“I’ll be right back.” He walks to the living room quickly, and, thankfully, Laurent is just waking up, which means Auguste is there when he opens his eyes.

He’d had to move the couch to make the two mattresses fit – it’s now in the kitchen – close enough so Laurent can see him easily when he wakes up but not close enough that he thinks someone is in his bed with him; he also doesn’t want a repeat of _that_ panic attack.

“Is someone here?” he asks immediately.

Auguste nods; he has an uncanny ability to tell when people are in the apartment. “My friends stopped by. I can send them away.”

“Did you open the door for them?”

Auguste nods.

“Did you leave me?”

This particular phase of Laurent’s recovery has been hard; even when Auguste is in the shower, Laurent will simply sit on a stool in the other side of the closed door and make him talk constantly to make sure he’s still _there,_ because he can’t see him, and it’s distressing for him. It’s the same when it’s Laurent in the shower, and when Auguste is sitting on the stool on his phone, talking mindlessly through the door, it’s the closest thing he’s had to privacy in the last few weeks.

“Only for a minute,” he swears. Distress shows in Laurent’s face, and Auguste continues quickly. “But I won’t again, I promise. I can tell them to leave, it’ll only take a few minutes, and you can come with me.”

That’s going to be a weird conversation, but Auguste can text them later with more of an explanation; he doesn’t know if they’ve seen the news, or if they’ll know what’s happened to Laurent, but he hopes that, if they do, they won’t say it. Paschal seems to be the only one who can mention it without driving Laurent into a bad place. Once, Auguste and Laurent had stumbled through a report on what happened on TV, late at night, and it had taken nearly sixteen hours to coax Laurent into moving again, let alone talking or eating.

Laurent hesitates. “You don’t have to tell them to leave.”

“You want them to stay?” Auguste asks, surprised; he didn’t think Laurent wanted to be around people. Thankfully, reporters haven’t been hounding them as much as they did a month ago, but he didn’t think Laurent would want to see anyone.

“Not really,” Laurent admits. “But I think it might be good. For you.”

Auguste really _does_ want to see his friends, but he really doesn’t want to make Laurent uncomfortable.

“Only if you’re comfortable with it,” he says.

Laurent nods, even if he doesn’t look certain.

“If at any point you want them to leave, you can tell me,” he insists; he really hopes that won’t happen.

“Alright,” Laurent agrees.

They walk out of the living room and into the kitchen together; Damen and Nik are rummaging around Auguste’s kitchen, grabbing snacks and glasses.

“Auguste, why the fuck is your couch in your kitchen?” Nik asks, climbing on it to look on top of the fridge, where Auguste used to keep all the good bottles of alcohol. “And what the fuck happened to every bottle you had?”

Auguste shifts lightly, keenly feeling Laurent beside him; though he thinks Laurent has already guessed how Auguste was living while he was trapped with their uncle, he doesn’t really want any explicit mentions of it.

“We saw Vannes,” Damen says, busy pouring chips into a plate. “She said she showed up at your door in lingerie and you turned her away-”

“Okay,” Auguste interrupts loudly, making his friends look over to him. Vannes’s visit had been incredibly uncomfortable; when, instead of Auguste, Laurent had opened the door, she’d cursed so loudly while she closed her coat that Auguste’s neighbors had peered into the hallway. Laurent had freaked out, Vannes had freaked out – yelling at Auguste about why he hadn’t told her he had a ‘fucking child’ in his care – and it had been mortifying for pretty much everyone involved. “Guys, this is my brother. Laurent, these are Damen and Nik.”

“Oh, cool,” Nik says. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Laurent says carefully, shifting a little closer to Auguste subtly.

“Hey.” Damen’s dimple shows when he smiles at Laurent. He lifts the bottle of Vodka towards him. “Want some?”

“He’s fifteen,” Auguste says.

“Oh,” Damen says, blinking. “No, then?”

“ _No_ ,” Auguste says.

Damen shrugs and pours three shots of Vodka, handing one to Nik and then pushing one into Auguste’s hand despite his protests.

“If you don’t want it, I'll drink it,” Laurent offers, and Damen grins at him.

“See?” he says.

Auguste considers it; part of him feels like he has no right to place any sort of boundaries with Laurent. In the time when his brother needed him the most, in the times where he needed an adult, Auguste wasn’t there, so he feels like not allowing him a shot of Vodka could be overstepping his place.

He shakes the feeling off.

“No,” he says firmly. “You’re a child, Laurent. You can’t drink Vodka.”

He’d talked about it to Paschal, exactly because he’d been having this exact problem in the first few weeks Laurent was here. Paschal had reminded him that since their parents died, Laurent hasn’t had anyone to impose healthy boundaries, no one to _parent_ him, which has made him overtly mature for his age, but he’s still a child, and he’s Auguste’s responsibility.

“I’m fifteen.”

It might be too little too late, but Auguste _is_ getting better.

He hopes it’ll be enough, some day.

“Exactly,” Auguste says. He hands the shot glass back to Damen, who shrugs and drinks it. “Don’t get drunk here.”

“Alright.” Damen nods. They might not understand – at all – what Auguste is going through, but they’re good friends, and they’ll support him through it. Auguste regrets not texting them more often before. “Do you want to play poker? We brought cards.”

Auguste looks at Laurent, who shrugs. “I’ve never played. Uncle liked to play chess.”

Auguste vows to never bring a chessboard near Laurent again. Nothing that’ll even _risk_ a triggered memory.

“We can teach you,” Nikandros says. “Auguste and Damen are both crap at it because they can’t lie for shit, but hopefully you’ll turn out better.”

“Maybe you’re just a terrible teacher,” Damen says.

“I’m not,” Nikandros says. “You’re shit liars.”

Auguste and Damen begin protesting immediately, and Laurent smiles softly for the first time in days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed it :D please do let me know/request to my tumblr if you want more <3


	4. The Vannes Incident

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo, babes, do you remember how in the last chapter I mentioned something happened with Vannes? I couldn't get it out of my head, so I wrote it. It's chapter 4 but it happened BEFORE chapter 3. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy <333

_ The Vannes incident  _ happens during one of Laurent’s miraculous good days; still, however good the day was, Laurent wasn’t expecting opening the door to find a woman – older than him, about Auguste’s age – in navy blue lingerie and blood red lipstick; he’d looked at her, she’d looked at him, and, for a split second, neither of them moved.

Then,

“ _ What the fuck _ ?” she screeches, wrapping her coat around herself and tying it frantically, face beginning to turn red. “What the ever-loving  _ shit _ , Auguste I’m going to fucking kill you, what the fuck is  _ wrong _ with you-”

“What the fuck?” Laurent asks before he can help himself, face beginning to flame and hands beginning to flutter frantically. “I - why would - I didn’t see anything - I mean I did, but-”

“You have a fucking  _ child _ in your care, you fucker!” she screams into the  apartment . “Why the hell wouldn’t you tell me-”

“What’s going on?” Auguste comes into the hall with a towel badly wrapped around his waist – he'd been in the shower, which was the entire reason Laurent answered the door – and shampoo still dripping from his hair. 

“A fucking  _ child _ , Auguste!” the woman is frantic, face red from fury. “I show up at your door so we can have sex and you don’t bother to tell me there’s a fucking  _ child _ in the apartment?”

“I’m fifteen,” Laurent says meekly, but if he’s quite honest, he’s freaking out about all of this; first, knowing a girl wants to have sex with Auguste?  _ Disgusting _ . Second, this is the first time Laurent’s ever seen a woman in any state of undress, and it’s  _ weird _ , and third,  _ what the fuck is even happening _ ?

“I’m sorry!” Auguste says, looking between the two of them. “I would’ve told you if you’d called!”

“Called?” she demands angrily. “ _ Called _ ? Since when have I ever needed to give you a warning, you bastard, I-”

“ _ Fuck,  _ fuck, fuck, fuck, okay, I’m sorry, I’m really, really sorry,” Auguste says. “I - Vannes, this is Laurent, Laurent, this is Vannes. We’re friends-”

“We’re not friends,” Vannes says venomously. “I  _ loathe  _ you, Auguste, what the fuck were you thinking-”

“Okay,” Auguste interrupts warily, looking out the hall with a grimace. “The neighbors are beginning to come out. Vannes, do you want to come in? I’ll cook.”

“ _ You’ll  _ cook?” Vannes snorts derisively. “I don’t think I've ever seen a single thing in your fridge that didn’t contain at least 20% of alcohol.”

Auguste looks away guiltily, clearing his throat. “Right. I’ve, uh, changed.”

Laurent doesn’t know if Auguste thinks he doesn’t know how he was before; by the time Laurent had arrived to his apartment, he’d gotten rid of everything that could’ve tipped Laurent off, but Laurent has always been smarter than anyone realized. And Auguste... well, he’s been a mess. Maybe less than Laurent has, but a mess anyway, so the first time Laurent had opened the freezer it had smelled so much like alcohol he’d nearly gagged. It also didn’t help that Auguste had forgotten to get any food – which had really spoken about how he’d been eating lately – how there was no drinking water, and the fact that though everything was clean and proper, it hadn’t looked like it was viable for anyone to live there at all.

They’d had to go shopping for pans and dishware, which had been pretty telling.

“Right.” Vannes scoffs, but she makes her way inside, pushing aggressively past Auguste; Laurent fights back a smug smile. “It  better be good, DeVere, because if we’re not having sex I don’t have a reason to stick around.”

“Right,” Auguste says, looking supremely uncomfortable again. “I’ll - uh, get to that.”

“I don’t like shampoo in my food,” Laurent says snidely.

Auguste seems to realize he’d been mid shower, and hastily says, “ _ Right _ . I’ll be right back.”

He walks off towards the bathroom again, and Laurent and Vannes stare at each other.

“Kid,” she says.

“I’m not a kid,” he snaps sharply. 

He can’t help it. Uncle used to remind him he was a kid, whenever he thought Laurent was being too much, and Laurent isn’t a kid, he’s  _ not.  _ Even if he’d ever been a normal child, running outside with friends and safe with his parents like Auguste was, whatever little childhood he’d had left after the death of his parents was stolen from him. Laurent hasn’t been a kid in a long time.

“Alright,” Vannes says. “L then.”

“That sounds like Elle.”

“Lou?”

“Never.”

“Laurent is impossible to pick a nickname for,” she complains.

“You don’t have to find me a nickname,” Laurent points out. They won’t likely see each other often enough for that; and, honestly, now that he’s seen her boobs, he’s not sure he  _ wants _ to see her again. It’s terribly uncomfortable.

“Fine, I'll use Laurie.” She rolls her eyes. “And you think I trust that dumb brother of yours to take care of another human being?” She barks out a sharp laugh. “ _ Honey _ , he drowns painkillers with Vodka.”

“I believe you,” Laurent mutters, a pang of  _ something _ in his chest.

“I’m here,” Auguste says, coming into the hallway dressed and drying his hair with a towel. “What do you guys feel like?”

“Impress us,” Vannes says, upturning her nose. 

Auguste looks at him, and Laurent shrugs in agreement. He sighs, looking at the both of them warily, and Laurent can almost feel himself smile.

“Come on,” Vannes says, grabbing his elbow and dragging him towards the couch; he stiffens, but the touch is... not that bad; it’s not comfortable, but it’s not like – it's not unbearable. “We’ll pick a movie while your brother slaves away in the kitchen for us.”

Laurent lets her pick the movie, and, before it’s over, his feet are even in her lap.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Find me on tumblr @mfingenius :D


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